


Simulation Training

by Legendaerie



Series: Good at Bad Ideas [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom!Carolina, F/M, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Porn with Feelings, Self-Bondage, Sub!York, Voyeurism, a whole lot of kinks and feelings, mentions of restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: Immediate follow-up to Shore Leave.Carolina makes good on a promise. Like, really good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'd say im sorry but everyone knows i'm not. (un-betaed but proofread at least, so i tried)

On the one hand, if her day hadn’t been such garbage Carolina might have been less inclined to agree to this situation. But on the other, if her day had gone better she wouldn’t have to resort to such drastic measures to enjoy herself. She'd been anticipating their shore leave for weeks, and now she has to try to get  it out of her system so she can have a few weeks in peace without missing York.

It’s a cycle; she distances herself until she can’t stand it anymore and corners York to demand a few hours of his undivided attention, whatever the activity may be. He’d been tense and concerned the first couple times, but he’s starting to adapt to her needs. Anticipate them, maybe. Reciprocate as well, if she caught some of the looks he gave her on Rissika correctly.

Pity that it takes a bout of food poisoning to finally get York in her bed for a solid, consecutive couple of hours, but he’s here now. On his back with his arms above his head, wrists crossed loosely. Watching her as she dims the lights and eases herself down on the mattress beside him, wincing at the way the movement brings back vivid memories of the medical treatment she’s undergone for the past four hours.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Carolina says, trying to find a comfortable position on her side. Her eyes are adjusting to the dim glow that can just catch the edge of York’s face as he turns to watch her. “It’s out of my body, now, at least.”

Fingertips brush the side of her cheek. “We can take a rain check if you--”

“No.” She finds his shoulder and shoves, pushing him to lie flat against the bed again; he concedes with a little huffing sigh, but continues to study her.

A pause. She’s teased him over the radio before - closed channel, and nothing explicit - but this is different. He’s right here. Close enough for her to touch.

She doesn’t. “Take off your shirt,” Carolina says instead, testing the waters and his reaction time. A heartbeat, then the curl of his body sitting up blocks her view of the light. There’s the soft sound of worn-soft fabric sliding over skin and then he falls back onto the mattress.

“Like this?” he asks.

Carolina thumbs her sheets, other hand holding her head up. “Pants, too.”

“Underwear?”

“Leave it on.”

York obeys, and she admires the arch of his back and the tilt of his hips as he does so; leisurely, as though he was aware of her eyes on him and putting on a show. Not what she wants out of this. She wants him a mess.

With his hands anchored above his head again, Carolina starts.

“If we’d had time.” she says, barely above a whisper, “I would have laid you out like this. Tied you up like this and just… waited.”

In the quiet, she can hear the soft catch of his breath. In the dark, she can imagine his face. “Yeah?”

She hums in return, stretching her fingertips out along the sheet to where the weight of his body wants to roll her closer, an artificial gravitational pull. “Until you wanted me badly enough.”

“I do.”

“Not enough,” she counters. It’s easier than she expected to do this; talking him through a scenario, giving him orders comes naturally, but she’s getting into this, too. “I’d take off my shirt while you watched. Let-- maybe let my hair down too.” If she closes her eyes, she can feel the phantom pull of the hairclips she’d shoved roughly into place early that morning. It would have been more for her than for him, as much as she knows he likes to run his fingers through her ponytail.

York makes a soft noise that brings her back to the present. “Your pants, too?”

“Yeah. Take them off really slow. Underwear too, and then…” Carolina pauses, fumbling for the right words, “I’d crawl up your body, and still never touch you.”

“I’d try to touch you,” he promises her, a little bit of desperation entering his voice.

“You’d fail,” she informs him in return, lowering her voice as she drags her fingernails across the mattress. “I’m faster than you.”

Another sound; this time she notices the way  he shifts on the bed, uncomfortable. “Yeah, but I’d try really, _really_ hard.”

She can visualize that, too; York somehow hooking a leg around her and pulling her in, trying to steal a kiss. In the real world, he’s looking almost as desperate, cock hardening and already starting to strain against his boxers. She can’t bite his lip so she bites hers instead, changing her position so she can reach up and feel the tension in his pillow from where he’s gripping it. “Then I’d pin you to the bed until you proved you could behave.”

His chin tilts back as he takes a sharp breath, and satisfaction hits her low in the chest. He _does_ like it when she knocks him down in sparring.

“And then?”

“You’re assuming you could prove it,” she says, mouth twisting upwards with the satisfaction of her own joke. York just hisses a laugh, already losing his breath.

“If I could. Probably can’t, but-- _please--_ ”

That gets her attention. An echo of the sentiment a moment ago; lower in her drained body, darker, hotter.

“If you could prove it,” she admits, “I’d touch you.”

She can see his arms flex as he shifts his grip on the pillow, framing his face with his elbows and digging his fingernails in. “Where?” York asks, almost as though he dreads the answer.

“Your wrists, first.” She would feel where the plastic met his skin, check that they weren’t cutting in. “Your shoulders. Your ribs,” and she worries her lip with her teeth, eying the way his chest heaves  in the dim lighting. “Just barely touching you.”

His gasp when she reaches out and skims her fingers down his stomach breaks out of him, his whole body arching to follow her touch. Carolina reaches down lower, just barely touching the tip of his cock through his underwear before retracting her hand. York flops back against the bed with audible frustration.

“Still good?”

“Fuck,” he swears like he didn’t even hear her question, “fuck, just keep going.”

Carolina falls silent. Waits.

After a breath, York reins himself in and adds, “please.”

“Next,” she says, keeping her hands to herself. “I’d strip your boxers off.”

His hands fly down to his clothes, shoving them down his thighs and kicking them off. This time, he’s awkward, hurried, and just barely palms himself before reaching up for the pillow again.

“Yes?” he asks. Not for the first time, Carolina finds herself feeling bitter over the day’s events. She could be kissing him right now, straddling his hips and teasing him by rubbing her clit up and down his shaft, wet enough to make the movement easy. Instead, all she can do is watch him.

Unless--

“I’d grind myself against you,” Carolina whispers, and watches York writhe at the mere thought. “Well?” she asks sharply, when he doesn’t react as she expects. “Aren’t you going to touch yourself?”

To her exhausted eyes, the movement of his arm is a blur as it snaps down so he can fist his cock. Without his bicep in the way, she can see his face again; see the way his eyes are closed, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he shivers under his own touch.

“Stop,” she says. He moans but pauses, head tipping to the side and eyes falling open as he watches her. Carolina swallows. “Slowly.”

Gaze lingering on hers, York obeys; the pace she sets for him is torturous, if the way he sucks in air through his teeth is anything to go by. It’s still not enough to shut him up. “What else?” he asks, voice a rasp.

“Not so fast.” Dragging her fingertips down his arm gets another choked-back moan out of him. “I’d take my time with this part.”

Her eyes flicker across her room, hunting for something. “Hang on,” she warns him, and very carefully eases herself to her knees, reaching over his head for a little packet of lotion she’d grabbed from the hotel. Carolina lets him use both hands to open it as she lowers herself back down, but as soon as he’s slicked himself she lowers her voice.

“Only one hand. You know where the other one should go.”

Another swear, and his head tosses against the pillow as he obeys, slowing down his pace as well. “Yes, ma’am,” he says; she wishes he wouldn’t, because it makes her stomach swoop with arousal. Much as she’d like to, her body can’t handle sex right now, not while she’s still trying to recover.

“Keep going,” is what she says instead, resting her head on her other pillow as she watches York edge himself on her command.

The absolute control she has over him is dizzying. Control that he is glad to give up, to hand over to her even though it makes his entire body shake with need. The way he watches her with open, undisguised desire has her nearly aching for him, too.

Carolina wrestles those emotions down and presses onwards. She’s sliding towards him, drawn in by the weight and the warmth of his body, and stops herself before she gets close enough to touch. She can hear him swallow down some aborted plea, the wet smack of his lips as he pants, the shift of his body against the sheets as his willpower and his want battle it out. WIth her eyes adjusting to the dark, she can see it to, the sharp lines of his body as every muscle tenses with the effort of taking it slow.

“I’d ride you like this,” she says, her own voice starting to fray at the ends, “until you couldn’t stand it anymore.”

The sound he makes as he tips his head back, eyes squeezing shut, is agonised; sharp and loud and raw. “God,” York gasps, the words nearly strangled on their way out, “ _damn it_ , Carolina.”

She fumbles to find his wrist and then clamps her hand around it, anchoring it to his hips and stopping his strokes. “Want me to stop?” she threatens.

“No, no no please,” and he all but writhes underneath her, squirming under her restrictive touch but not fighting it, “don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Their bodies are close enough now that their legs can tangle. York’s thigh rubs against the inside of hers and sends an electric kick up her spine, bad enough she has to sink her teeth into her tongue. Carolina pulls herself away, wincing at a stitch in her side, but recovers just as fast.

“If we’d had the time,” and she has to swallow to clear her mouth first, “I’d--”

Hand still clamped around his wrist, she guides him to jerk slow, barely there movements around the base of his cock.

“I’d hold you down like this, and make you beg.”

She can feel his entire body seize; on instinct, she shifts her hand to cover his and tightens her grip, cutting off his orgasm. Too late, she wonders if she’d gone too far, taken advantage of his trust and vulnerability and hurt him.

“Sorry, was that--”

“Good. Really good.” He releases his death grip on her pillow to reach out and, gracelessly, rub his thumb against the side of her face. “Fucking _hell_ , Carolina,” the words sound dragged out of his, voice hoarse, “why haven’t we been doing this shit the whole time?”

She doesn’t want to answer that, so instead once his breathing starts to even out Carolina guides his hand to jerk him off, faster than before. York doesn’t have to be told this time, fingertips trailing along her jawline, tracing the underside of her lip before he anchors his hand above his head again.

At a loss, skin burning from his touch, Carolina stalls. “How would you want this?” she asks. She withdraws her hand and plants it in the narrow space between them, digging her nails into the sheets.

His breath catches, twists into a groan. “I’d want you to fuck me-- fuck yourself on me--” When he speeds up for a second, she doesn’t stop him. “until you’re just as much of a mess as me.”

“Not possible,” she says, her own composure slipping as she speaks. “Look at you. You’re a wreck.”

“I could try,” he insists, and manages a laugh even as his back arches. This time, he slows down without being told, and turns his head to the side to give her his full attention.

“You want me to beg?” York asks. “I’d-- I’d do it. Just--” teeth sink into his lower lip, hard enough it looks like it’d hurt. “Touch me. Please.”

Carolina drags her fingers up his body; starting on the tops of his thighs, curving up to his hipbone and navel where the skin is damp from drops of precum. Slick, up his chest that shudders with his thundering pulse and ragged breathing, to press her fingertips against the side of his unmarked neck.

“And what,” she says, reading the way he leans into her touch, “would you do for a kiss?”

“ _Anything_. Anything you wanted. I’m yours.”

That simple admission twists like a hot knife in her stomach, because he can’t be serious. He may mean it, but he shouldn’t. They belong to the Project, not to each other.

And yet, they’re already pretending here; already neck deep in a fantasy of what should have happened. Why not take it a little further?

“You’re mine,” she echoes, and just saying it makes her cheeks red. But what it does to York is worth it.

“Oh,” he says, low and vulnerable like she’s broken him; and the hand that he’s kept above his head for so long slides down in time with her lean, cupping the back of her head and pulling her those last inches down for a kiss.

It’s messy, uncoordinated from his end and stiff from hers - she has to hold herself over him like glass, a dozen points of pain on her body from shots and sore joints and the protest of fatigue - but it’s enough. York ducks down and smothers a wail against the side of her neck that’s still loud enough that Carolina hopes the hallway is empty, jolting underneath her with the force of his orgasm.

She lingers, holding herself over his chest on her elbows, letting him cover her cheek and jawline with little, hummed kisses until he finally goes limp under her. One last shiver as she pulls away, her hair dragging across his skin, and she feels the weight of something caught in the strands below her ear.

A careful, exploratory touch makes her stiffen. “Be right back,” Carolina says, making a face halfway between disgust and laughter as she carefully gets up to go wash come out of her hair.

The bathroom sink is easier than the shower, and most of it is in the ends. Part of her feels proud to have driven him to such lengths - the other part is just irritated that she’s going to go to sleep with damp hair.

She’s wrapping the ends up in her hand towel when York peers around the corner. Their eyes meet in the mirror as he leans in the doorway. Clings to it, more like.

“If you’re already up,” she says, “I didn’t do my job right.”

“Oh, you did,” York assures her, hand lingering on the wall as he tosses a wad of tissues in the trash can. A flash of guilt; she’d meant to clean him up when she got back. “Trust me.”

He’s still naked when he presses his chest against her back, resting his chin on her opposite shoulder. The heat of his body, with his still-fluttering heartbeat thrumming against her shoulder blade, makes her sleepy too.

“What happened to your hair?” he asks.

“You did.”

That gets him flustered, and he shifts to hide from her sight, forehead bumping the back of her skull. “Oops,” he says, without a trace of regret, and she steps on his foot.

York presses his cheek against hers when he’s composed himself, studying them both in the mirror. Carolina’s tired, too tired to really support the weight of his body but she tries away, one hand braced on the sink as she lets the towel fall away. His arms bracket her body and when she meets his gaze in the mirror again she realizes how good they look together. How well they fit together, here, with her in her pajamas and the ends of her hair curling from the water and him solid and steady at her back. Supporting each other and being supported in turn.

Carolina drops his gaze, lowering her head until her hair falls in her eyes, wincing at a fresh wave of pain.

“Whoa, you okay?” York steps to the side, hands jumping to her shoulders, ready to support her. She waves him off.

“I’m fine, just. Tired. Go back to your own bed.”

He hesitates. She doesn’t move further, keeping her eyes down. “If you’re sure,” he says and backs out. “Good night, Carolina.”

“Good night, York.”

By the time she has the will to move, he’s taken his clothes and gone. Carolina eases herself onto the cool sheets and is already starting to close her eyes when she realizes her mistake.

Her pillow smells like him.

She flips it over, the angry movement making her arms tingle in protest, and breathes through her mouth instead.


End file.
